Concert Vault

Ty Segall

Big Orange Studios (Austin, TX)

Dec 28, 2010

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  1. 1 Welcome to Daytrotter 00:11
  2. 2 Come To California 01:29
  3. 3 Don't Talk To Me 01:50
  4. 4 I Wear Black 02:07
  5. 5 Skin 01:31
  6. 6 You're Not Me 02:36
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Liner Notes

Ty Segall is fantastically content to be that yapping dog, tied to a chain out in a neighbor's back yard, expressing his discontent at all hours of the day, piercing the world with his shrieks and howling vigor. He sounds wronged or fed up, or some of both and it seems that there is a good chance he's going to get off that chain, but only conceptually, for the actuality of such a thing would ruin the story and all that wonderful rancor. It's already curdled and bristling, that rancor. It spits and it digs. It bites with a passion that could only come from someone or some thing with its back paw caught in a steel trap and, against any sort of judgment, that someone or some thing is craning its neck down to the paw and it's preparing to sink its teeth in to chew the bone off, just to get free. We realize that we could have it all wrong because even going through with such an operation will not then solve those woes. The predicament might be over, but it's just the beginning of the cancerous feelings and the contempt - either despising the self for getting into such a mess or hatred for those who set the traps. Segall could very well be coming from the perspective, not of someone who needs to get his jaw down to a trapped body part for an amputation, but from the perspective of someone who's already done such a deed and now has a stump where that paw used to be and he's angrier than he's ever been - his pissiness responding to this new disfigurement. The San Francisco songwriter has an irritation that matches that of Ben Weasel, but he enhances it with the added quality of having the blood burst from the back of his throat and trickle down it as he gurgles out his issues. Segall paints the walls with the splatterings of his hissy fits and he gives us his angst in trashy scribbles, short bursts of fuck yous and "this is just the guy I ams," daring anyone to try and change him or get him to smile for the camera. We shant hypothesize upon what actually sparks his ire because it seems as if it comes from a pure place and we'd just loathe knowing such a thing.

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More Ty Segall

Ty Segall is fantastically content to be that yapping dog, tied to a chain out in a neighbor's back yard, expressing his discontent at all hours of the day, piercing the world with his shrieks and howling vigor. He sounds wronged or fed up, or some of both and it seems that there is a good chance he's going to get off that chain, but only conceptually, for the actuality of such a thing would ruin the story and all that wonderful rancor. It's already curdled and bristling, that rancor. It spits and it digs. It bites with a passion that could only come from someone or some thing with its back paw caught in a steel trap and, against any sort of judgment, that someone or some thing is craning its neck down to the paw and it's preparing to sink its teeth in to chew the bone off, just to get free. We realize that we could have it all wrong because even going through with such an operation will not then solve those woes. The predicament might be over, but it's just the beginning of the cancerous feelings and the contempt - either despising the self for getting into such a mess or hatred for those who set the traps. Segall could very well be coming from the perspective, not of someone who needs to get his jaw down to a trapped body part for an amputation, but from the perspective of someone who's already done such a deed and now has a stump where that paw used to be and he's angrier than he's ever been - his pissiness responding to this new disfigurement. The San Francisco songwriter has an irritation that matches that of Ben Weasel, but he enhances it with the added quality of having the blood burst from the back of his throat and trickle down it as he gurgles out his issues. Segall paints the walls with the splatterings of his hissy fits and he gives us his angst in trashy scribbles, short bursts of fuck yous and "this is just the guy I ams," daring anyone to try and change him or get him to smile for the camera. We shant hypothesize upon what actually sparks his ire because it seems as if it comes from a pure place and we'd just loathe knowing such a thing.